The Dowager Huai was already seated when I entered, a small mountain of brocade with pearls stitched into it as if weight of them could be substituted for authority.
Two ladies hovered behind her, their eyes bright with the particular hunger that lives in courtyards where gossip is food. A clerk waited at a side table, ink stone wet, brush lifted, ready to record exactly how foolish the next moments would be.
She dipped, shallow. "Empress. I bring grievance."
"You bring habit," I returned, lowering myself to the bench opposite. "Grievance requires injury. Habit is when a mother thinks strings tied in a back room outweigh the Emperor's orders."
Her lips went thin. The ladies stiffened. The clerk looked at the floor like a man who suddenly remembered a prayer.
She pushed a lacquered tube across the table with two fingers. "A petition, properly drawn. You will find the terms reasonable."
